


the invisible girls

by hock



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson, Next to Normal - Kitt/Yorkey
Genre: Gen, also trigger warning, discussion of suicide, especially about connors abuse, i kin natalie, i love these girls, it just makes a lot of sense to have them interact, jk i just love her so much, kjfghsdj, so connor is dead, so she doesnt always have good thoughts, this exists in the canon timeline, this has been sitting in my drafts for a literal year i finally did it, zoe is a complex character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 19:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17772764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hock/pseuds/hock
Summary: Mirrors come in all shapes and sizes.





	the invisible girls

**Author's Note:**

> this was so much fun to write  
> hmu on tumblr @hocksquawks  
> also i love comments kudos etc

Zoe didn’t feel real.

None of this felt real, for that matter. The had been dozens of near misses, hundreds of scares, so much so that so that Zoe had believed that if it finally happened–when it finally happened– she wouldn’t be surprised. She would feel relieved even, glad that it was finally over.

It was awful to feel that way about a sibling, but wasn’t that what everyone, even he, wanted?

She wasn’t mourning, exactly. Rather, she felt oddly tired, oddly numb. Every time she rounded the corner near his locker, she expected to see him there sulking, his greasy hair falling flatly in his pale face, his tired eyes boring into the heads of passersby. But he wasn’t there. He never would be there ever again. She let that sink in, staring dazedly at the wall. The cavity of his space next to his locker was deafeningly empty, just like the cavity that was beginning to open in her chest.

It wasn’t possible to cry. When the call had come yesterday, some well-meaning police officer just doing his job bearing the news, and her mother had burst into tears and shoved everyone in the car, Zoe had tried to let tears fall. They wouldn’t come. There was simply nothing.

Empty space, just like what her brother had left behind.

Even seeing him bathed in the fluorescent white lights, laying in a thin hospital gown like some sort of broken angel, her eyes refused to water. She took him in, his obstinate curls framing his face like a halo, the scabs that lined his wrist like a sickening spiral bound, new and old. She wanted to look away, never have to see her brother’s bony face ever again, but, at the same time, she couldn’t tear her gaze away, wanting to cement his face permanently in her mind. Even in death, he had a permanent crease between his two brows. She wanted there to be some emotion in her chest, something that could haunt her, something that would make her feel real again. 

Did she miss him? She wasn’t sure. She couldn’t be.

She shook her head, looking around the deserted hallways. Perhaps the bell had rung, she wasn’t sure. News had spread like wildfire, alighting like kindling in classrooms. People were hubs of gossip, constantly shooting pitying glances towards her as she passed. It was weird, having all eyes on her as opposed to her brother. The teachers extended their sympathy, not marking her for her tardiness, giving her grace on her failed American history quiz. Still, she couldn't shake the way their eyes lingered long after she was gone. The poor girl with the dead freak for a brother. That’s all she was now.

By the end of the day, Zoe thought she was suffocating.

She fought the urge to slam her locker door, instead settling on aggressively shoving her lock back on. She shouldered her blue backpack, the straps weighing heavier on her shoulders than usual. She wondered if this was how Connor felt–pardon, Connor had felt– when everyone had stared at him. Had he, too, felt overexposed the elements, felt his skin crawl with their pitying glares, the eyes taunting him to do something, anything, that would just prove what they had already assumed?

She retreated down the stairs, pushing through the double doors that led to the band room, letting the familiar high ceilings raise themselves above her. This was her home, even if she wasn’t technically in concert or symphonic band. The director doted on her like a child and allowed her to keep her instrument in one of the lesser used lockers, for use in the jazz band. She opened the door, pulling out her case, and shut it behind her, walking back towards one of the three practice rooms. She entered the studio, shutting the door behind her. 

It was so gut-wrenchingly normal, sitting in front of a stand of music, piles, and piles of music. Enough music to drown in, and that was what Zoe planned to do. Her fingers lingered on the strings, ghosting the chords written on the page. She breathed deeply, forcibly willing the air through her lungs like a creaking machine.

There was something beautiful about playing music.

It made her forget if anything. Nowhere else could she find solace so consistently, even in her own home. Music was temporary in its permanence. Music was, in some senses, immortal. If anything, Zoe loved it. She loved losing herself, letting memory take control of her fingers so her mind could wander far away from anything else. She used it to escape, to keep the thoughts that buzzed in the back of her head from spilling over, kept her in one place, in one piece.

Music was like breathing, it came and went, ebbed and flowed. It was essential for life, much like the air around. Music could be anything, happy, sad, angry, insane. It could enlighten her; it could drive her insane. She halfway hoped it did. Zoe strummed carefully, the callouses on her fingers rubbing against the strings on her guitar. She practiced on her acoustic, but come jazz band, she played the electric. The acoustic sound was softer on her heartstrings, and that was what Zoe needed right now.

She read the music like it was her favorite book, tore through pages and pages of notes and rhythms, breathed alongside the key and time signatures. Body arching with each changing phrase, each added flat, each handwritten mark to staccato, legato. She closed her eyes, fingers frantically finding the chords that fell from her fingers. It was a desperate search for normalcy, and she knew it, her heart sinking far into her gut. Suddenly, the tears that she had so desperately wished for soared like glittering comets down her cheeks, sliding uncomfortably onto her neck as she continued strumming, ignoring the heat rising in her cheeks, or the unevenness of her ragged breath.

Her finger landed on the wrong fret, skewing the chord in the wrong direction. She shoved her guitar into her lap in frustration, leaning her head against her stand, letting her tears run against the black plastic.

This wasn’t fair, none of it was.

It wasn’t fair that she had a dead brother. It wasn’t fair that he was a freak, to begin with. It wasn’t fair that she was only getting choked up about it now. It wasn’t fair that suddenly Connor’s name was taboo in her house because her mother would burst into tears, and her father would turn beet red and crumple whatever happened to be in hand. It wasn’t fair that even if he died, something that was supposed to make it all better, he took with him every sense of normality their house ever had. It just wasn’t fair.

She felt selfish. She felt that Connor was selfish. He was selfish in leaving them like this. She was selfish in pinning the blame all on him. Perhaps he felt as trapped as she now did, but she couldn’t ask him that. Not like they even talked anymore, really.

Another wave of tears came as she finally realized that she did miss him. She missed who he was before it all went downhill. She missed him helping her across the street on her first day of fourth grade, missed taking guitar lessons with him. She missed his smile, however rare it was. She took a step back from it all and realized that he was a dick to her. She knew he was mean and even abusive in his language and actions. Should she even miss him?

She leaned back against her chair and wiped her disgustingly puffy face, using her sleeves to mop up the anger streaming down her cheeks and onto her neck. She stood up, preparing to get her things and just leave, the productivity of her practice now next to zero. 

And then, she heard the most beautiful piano music streaming underneath the crack of the door. She recognized it barely, some fragment of a Mozart piece, delicate rhythms, and notes twirling off the keys and into the air. Something about the music made her tears turn to sobs, and she sat in her chair, clutching her guitar to her chest and wailing to the tempo of the delicate piano that floated between the practice rooms. She buried her head in her hands and just let it come; tears glided down her pink cheeks as the music washed over her. 

She sobbed to the syncopation of sixteenth note runs, breathed at each changing phrase. She didn’t realize when it stopped, but she did jolt in surprise as someone began to open the door.

“Hey, are you–woah, okay,” Someone said. Zoe looked up, panic setting in. Who is it? Who was going to see her balled up in a chair with her guitar in her lap, eyes puffy, cheeks red, snot dripping down her nose. She looked at the intruder.

She looked familiar, but Zoe wasn’t quite she knew her. Her name was Natalie, Zoe was fairly certain. She had seen her in the hallway and in the band room occasionally but had never really introduced herself.

Natalie spoke again. “What’s up?” She hesitated at the door as if she was afraid that crossing into the threshold would somehow escalate the situation more.

“My brother is dead,” Zoe began. It felt like a dirty confession, like something she should be kept secret, locking up behind closed doors. She didn’t even know where the words came from. Why was she telling her this? Why couldn’t she keep her stupid mouth shut?

To her surprise, Natalie calmly took a sip of her Red Bull and replied, “Same.”

“What?” Zoe replied, breathless.

“I said, same. My brother is dead, too,” She took another sip of her Red Bull, nonchalant, “Anything else you need to share?”

Zoe looked at her, wide-eyed. She felt like a deer in the headlights, being met with such casual indifference. 

“Uh,” she swallowed nervously. May as well. There wasn’t really much more that she could say that could incriminate her more than she already had. “It’s all so sudden, you know? Like, he was here on Monday. He was real, I guess. Called me a bitch when I used his hairbrush and everything. Now, it’s like he never was here. Well, that’s what my dad thinks. My mom is still acting like he’s here, and it’s all so fucking crazy; I feel like I’m going fucking crazy.”

Natalie laughed. It was a sharp sound, harshly resonant in the practice room. Zoe looked at her in surprise, anger boiling in her gut. “Why the fuck are you laughing?”

Natalie paused, still darkly amused. She took another long sip of her Red Bull.

“I don’t know, man,” Natalie shrugged, running a hand through her curly hair. “We’re kind of the same person? Well, not exactly–”

“What?” Zoe sniffed, drying her cheeks and wrinkling her brow.

“Do you even listen? Jesus,” Natalie laughed again. “My brother’s dead–not under the same circumstances as Connor, admittedly–my mom’s batshit–literally fucking thinks he’s still here–and my dad? He’s been living a self-perpetrated lie for almost two fucking decades. And me? I’m caught in the middle, just like you. Crazy, man,” Natalie shrugs, draining the rest of her Red Bull and tossing it in the trash can. “I’m getting off topic. Anyways, I get it.”

Zoe blinked.

Suddenly, she doubled over in laughter. Giddy relief flooded her gut, relaxed her body, made her cry and laugh and lapse out of her previous hysterics. Why was this world so fucking crazy? The dark humor of this entire encounter became increasingly apparent. What were the chances? She looked up at Natalie again.

Natalie had appeared to relax at Zoe’s laughter, finally slinking into the room and sitting in one of the other chairs. She smiled grimly when Zoe’s laughter stuttered to a slow halt.

“What the fuck?” Zoe asked, laughing. It wasn’t really a question. Not one that was meant to be answered, anyway. “I didn’t know you–how do you even, like, function?” She cocked her head, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “How do you feel like the world isn’t going to open up and swallow you whole or something like that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t usually talk about this stuff. My plan is to keep it right here, “ she patted her heart, “until I die,” She laughed. “No, no, I’m kidding. It just kind of becomes your life. I think you feel like you said–’the world is going to open up and swallow you whole, or something’–and one day, you just won’t, anymore. I don’t know. I wake up every morning, just like everyone else on this earth. I wake up and continue about my day even when my family is out of their fucking minds.”

Zoe listened intently, watching Natalie travel through phases of emotion. She went from guarded humor to an anecdotal type of wisdom, finally landing on a philosophical frankness. It was fascinating to hear from someone so similar to her. 

“That’s–that’s comforting to hear, I guess.”

“It’s really like they say–life goes on. Life goes on, no matter how fucked up it is,” Natalie shrugged. “And, like, I’m not necessarily the best with feelings–if you can’t already tell,” She laughed again, “–but if you need anything, like shoulder to sob into or an ear to bitch to– I’m here. Sisters with fucked up families support sisters with fucked up families, am I right?” Her phone went off in her pocket. “Shit, my dad’s here.” She stood to leave.

“Wait–” Zoe said abruptly. Natalie stopped. “What if– what if there’s a guy,” Natalie raised her eyebrows, “and–and he’s just now started trying to talk to me and I don’t want to drag him into my family shit but it’s eventually unavoidable–”

“Give it time,” Natalie interrupted, “just, trust me. If he’s right, he’ll stick around. If not? I’m here. I can kick his ass. Or let you bitch. Whatever works.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and fled out the door, leaving Zoe with drying tear tracks etched in her cheeks and an odd relief growing in her heart.


End file.
